


Find a Way to Follow Me

by WednesdayGilfillian



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Love Letters, Patrick's POV, Premarital Sex, Romance, Slow Burn, Turnadette - Freeform, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdayGilfillian/pseuds/WednesdayGilfillian
Summary: "I'm supposed to go to Chichester, but I won't. I'm going to Aberdeenshire, to stay with my mother’s cousin. I will understand if you no longer wish to write."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always thought it was incredibly brave of Shelagh to return to Poplar immediately, and start her new life amongst the gossip of the community. And – although it was beautifully-written, and perfectly-acted, and utterly, painfully real – I hate seeing her carry such guilt throughout the Christmas Special. So I'm diverging from canon here, and letting Shelagh escape for a while following her time in the sanatorium. She's going to get a chance to ground herself, and start her new life on her own terms. 
> 
> The rating applies to later chapters, and may possibly rise to E.

Patrick Turner felt dead on his feet. He had known exhaustion before, for much of his working life – but this was something more subtle, and more debilitating.

Ever since he had left Sister Bernadette outside the sanatorium, Patrick had been living in a fog. He managed his work with the usual finesse, but in every other aspect of his life he was slipping. That morning, Timothy had had to point out the shaving cream still on his ear.

If all he had felt was an empty numbness, that might perhaps have been livable. But at nights – or at any moment when he wasn’t actively busy – Patrick was plagued by impossible visions, and  _hope_ , which was worse.

Of course, she hadn’t answered any of his letters. But that didn’t stop his brain tormenting him.

However, the business of life and death did not cease just because Patrick was in turmoil. He had even been assigned a young doctor on secondment – a bright young chap called John Buchanan. He was already a good physician, taking Poplar in his stride and keen to learn anything he could. Patrick tried to put up a cheery façade, and to keep up with the young man.

 

At last, another interminable day had ended. Patrick sat at his desk, flipping listlessly through papers as the door opened and Doctor Buchanan entered. After hours of work, the young man still looked fresh-faced and sprightly – but Patrick couldn’t quite hold it against him.

“A few bits of mail from your pigeon-hole, Doctor Turner,” Buchanan smiled, placing a handful of envelopes on his desk. Patrick blinked distractedly.  
“Thank you.” He picked them up, and managed a tired smile. “That will be all for the day, I think, Doctor Buchanan. You don’t want to miss your bus.”  
“I suppose not. And you’ll turn in for the evening soon, too, I imagine?”  
Patrick nodded. “Any minute.”  
He supposed it was polite of the man not to actually say ‘You look exhausted’.  
“Well, I’ll see you on the morrow, Doctor. Good evening.”

As the young doctor left, Patrick flipped idly through the late-delivered mail. He and Timothy probably ought to invite Doctor Buchanan home for dinner one evening, he mused. Then he laughed bitterly.  
_Look, John, in twenty years this is what you could be! Alone with a young son in a small flat, and not sleeping._

He was on the point of tossing the letters onto his desk to deal with later, when something about the last one caught his eye. Patrick went very still.

He turned the envelope over slowly, and stared at the sender’s name and address.

Seconds passed.

Patrick’s hand was oddly steady as he took up his letter-opener, and slit open the envelope. Carefully, he unfolded the page.

_Dear Doctor Turner,_

_Please forgive my long silence, and my neglect in answering your letters. It was a long time before I could bring myself to read them, for reasons I am sure you’ll understand._

_But thank you, they were beautiful letters, and the updates from Poplar were so very welcome. Everything you wrote to me was welcome._

_Now for my news...I’ve been discharged. The doctors here are satisfied with my progress, and I myself am feeling well._ _I’m supposed to go to Chichester, but I won’t. My time in the sanatorium has afforded me much reflection, and I now know beyond doubt that I can no longer answer to ‘Sister Bernadette’._

_I am going to Aberdeenshire, to stay with my mother’s cousin. I need to learn who I am again, away from Nonnatus House – and away from the prying eyes of Poplar. Forgive me if this seems cowardly, or ungrateful to your kindness. I will understand if you no longer wish to write._

_Your letters have meant a great deal to me, however. I am enclosing my new address, just in case._

_Please give my best to Timothy._

_Yours,  
Miss Shelagh Mannion_

 

Patrick’s heart felt as though it might burst from his chest – though he knew that to be medically improbable. She was recovering. She had read his letters. _Everything he wrote to her was welcome_. She no longer answered to ‘Sister Bernadette’. 

It was so much more than he could ever have hoped for.

And it made him almost breathless to see the name signed at the bottom – and to see her use the honorific ‘Miss’. Miss Shelagh Mannion. It was an unfamiliar name, but a beautiful one. He stared at the words for who knew how long.

Then suddenly, almost frantically, he turned the letter over. She had said she would enclose her new address… And there it was, inside the envelope, on another slip of paper. Patrick breathed again for the first time in several seconds.

It was a short address. It didn’t even include a street number, only _Care of:_ an unfamiliar name. And beneath that, the name of the village – Crovie, Aberdeenshire.

It took Patrick several minutes to find it on a map; it was evidently a tiny place on the coast. He tried not to think of the number of miles that now stretched between them.

Patrick shifted restlessly. He was torn between the desperate urge to write back immediately, and the more-sensible desire to formulate an articulate response. For so long, his letters had been written without expectation of reply – without even the certainty that she was reading them. The words had come easily. But now everything was different.

Agitated and oddly, almost-painfully happy, Patrick took up his pen.

 

_Dear Miss Mannion,_

_I was so very glad to receive your letter. I hardly know where to begin, or what to say._

_It is absolutely wonderful to hear of your recovery. I cannot easily express how much, or what relief I felt upon hearing of it._

_As for your other news, I hardly know what I trust myself to say. But please put out of your mind the thought that I could ever think you or your actions cowardly. You have gone through an enormous upheaval, and I quite understand your decision to spend some time in the country._

_I have found Crovie on the map – and if I cannot truly be glad that you are now further away than before, I can at least be confident that the sea air will aid your recovery. That is my dearest wish, to which all others are secondary._

_I hope that you will soon be comfortably settled in, and that when you have a moment you will write, if you wish to._

_Timothy will be thrilled to hear that you are better. He wonders how you are quite frequently – though perhaps not quite so frequently as I do._

_Yours,  
Patrick Turner_

Before he could second-guess anything he’d written, Patrick folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, carefully copying out the Crovie address. He would post the letter on his way home, though the postboxes wouldn’t be emptied till the morning.

Patrick shrugged on his overcoat, tucking both letters carefully into his pocket. He was still bodily exhausted, and he couldn’t imagine there was the faintest hope he would sleep. But he had reason to feel alive, now. It would be easier to get up in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely feedback!! It's very much appreciated!

Both Timothy and Doctor Buchanan noticed the change in Patrick almost immediately. He was still distractible, but more out of nervous energy than melancholy.

Patrick had explained to his son the essentials of the situation. That Sister Bernadette was now known as Miss Mannion, and that she was recovering from her illness, but was living far away in rural Scotland. If Timothy suspected there was anything more to be said, he didn’t show it – and for that, Patrick could only be grateful.

Shelagh’s – Miss Mannion’s – letter remained in his pocket, and Patrick reread it more times than he would ever admit. A week or two passed, and he had just begun to worry that maybe she had decided against answering his letter, when Doctor Buchanan brought him another handful of mail. (Patrick resisted the urge to promote the young man on the spot.)

He read her letter in the car, the second he was alone.

 

_Dear Doctor Turner,_

_Thank you for your letter, and your kind understanding. I hope this finds its way to you quickly… My new location is somewhat remote, but no doubt the postal service do their best._

_I have been in Crovie for about a week now, and am finding it to be just what I need. I am staying with my mother’s cousin, Morag, in her cottage by the sea. The whole little village is perched on a low ledge by the shore, with cliffs and rolling hillside above. It’s really quite picturesque. If only I had watercolours here, I would send Timothy another painting._

_Morag is terribly generous, and what Sister Evangelina might call ‘a character’. (In fact, I think it advisable that they never meet.) She never married, and is rather the black sheep of the family – that is to say, she lives life on her own terms. My mother used to visit her in the days before she had children, and it’s quite clear that she was Morag’s favourite._

_No one at Crovie knows that I ever took vows. All they know about me – or seem to want to know – is that I am “Mairi’s girl”. Morag says that even if they knew, they wouldn’t care so long as I didn’t disturb the fishing. I’m trying to make myself useful with mending and cleaning and medical knowledge, but I can no sooner do some small thing than the locals give me something in return. I can see I’ll never catch up._

_I hope that you and Timothy are well. I have no doubt that you are busy. If you have time, I am eager to hear any and all news from Poplar – and please, don’t be afraid to give me news from Nonnatus House. Sister Julienne and I remain on good terms, and are in correspondence. I do miss everyone – some people more than others – but I couldn’t be more certain that I have made the right decision._

_Yours,  
Miss Shelagh Mannion_

 

It was a long letter, at least compared to her last one, and Patrick found himself grinning as he read. He could practically hear her voice in those little turns of phrase. And that reference to missing ‘some people more than others’ – was that _meant_ to give him such giddy hope?

Once Tim was in bed – after being given a summary of the letter’s contents – Patrick sat down at the table and took up pen and paper. He smiled into space in the living room’s half-light.

 

_Dear Miss Mannion,_

_Thank you for your letter. You paint a vivid picture of Crovie, and of its inhabitants – I feel almost as if I’ve been there myself._

_I am glad to hear that you are being well looked-after. Your cousin Morag sounds as though she has a good head on her shoulders. I hope that you are still getting plenty of rest – though I’ll resist the urge to badger you on that subject._

_Things in Poplar are as busy as ever. I can’t believe we are already so far through the autumn. At present I have a young doctor shadowing me, by the name of John Buchanan. He’s an impressive young man, and almost startlingly competent. Nurse Noakes is still at work, though I have no doubt she’ll be a mother before long – she and Peter are looking very well. Nurse Miller recently did herself proud, delivering twins in a fraught situation. All of us here in Poplar miss you._

_Timothy has not yet quite adjusted to using your new name. He keeps pausing halfway through saying “Sister Bernadette” – but I am sure he will at some point get used to referring to you as Miss Mannion. (As will I. It still feels surreal, at present.)_

_Tim was also very pleased to see a Scottish stamp – I let him keep it for his collection. I myself am growing increasingly fond of the postal service, and am happy to wait however long it might take for a letter to arrive from Crovie._

_Yours,  
Patrick Turner_

 

That last line, of course, was a good-natured lie. The waiting was abominable. But Patrick’s work had always kept him busy, and these weeks were no different. When her next letter arrived, he somehow managed to save it all day to read in the silence of his room.

_Dear Doctor Turner,_

_Thank you for your letter, and especially for the news of our mutual friends. Poplar feels a million miles away sometimes, except when I receive a letter from you._

_I am now well-settled into life in the village, and when not occupied I have taken to exploring the surrounds. I walked all the way up to the cliffs yesterday, which I certainly could not have done a month ago. Or six months ago, in a habit. The view from up there on the hills is beautiful – though I’d forgotten how thoroughly a sea breeze can whip about one’s hair._

_Please do not alarm yourself, however. I am not overdoing things. I’m only revelling in the country atmosphere, which I’m sure is aiding my recovery. Morag keeps me rugged up warm, and in the evenings she has been known to sneak a nip of whisky into our teapot. (For medicinal purposes, obviously.)_

_I hope that you are not overdoing things. But I shan’t badger you on that point, either._

_I’m glad to hear that Timothy was pleased with the Scottish stamp. I’ll do my best to attach a different one to every letter, to give range to his collection. I am also enclosing a sprig of dried heather, in case it is of interest to either of you. Morag picked it last Spring, and it has been sitting on my dressing table since I got here._

_Yours,  
Shelagh Mannion_

Patrick’s chest felt oddly constricted as he retrieved the sprig of heather from the envelope. Dried as it was, it was delicate – he was afraid it might break between his fingers. Did she really think he could part with this, and pass it on to Tim? Perhaps that had never been her intention.

He brought the heather to his lips, and though the scent had long faded Patrick breathed deeply, his eyes closed. Just for a second, it seemed to bring them closer. He placed the dried sprig on his own dressing table, and turned back to read the letter again.

It was wonderful to hear of her enjoying daily life, and taking healthful walks up on the hills. But to think that she was out there – with her hair uncovered, and in layperson’s clothes – while _he wasn’t there to see her_ was torturous. He could _imagine_ how she might look, certainly… but that was not enough. And he could hardly write and beg to be told the colour of her hair.

Sighing, Patrick loosened his tie and began to undress. Could she possibly know what just the very thought of her did to him? In all his letters, he had never done more than subtly allude to his feelings… But then, perhaps he didn’t need to. The mere fact of their writing to each other felt freighted with unspoken meaning, and the subtlest line from her could quicken his heart. He would follow her lead on how and when to be open.

In the meantime, there was no doubt he would dream of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I _am_ a hopeless romantic...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your lovely responses!
> 
> And just a brief warning: this chapter touches on Patrick's experience of mental illness. I hope I've done the subject justice.

Autumn was fading slowly into winter, and the weather in London had been miserable. Colds and chesty coughs were rampant, and the air quality in Poplar did nothing to improve matters. Though Patrick’s immune system somehow fought it all off, Timothy had not been so lucky. He turned up at the surgery in the middle of one Wednesday, sent home from school.

“Poor little chap,” frowned Doctor Buchanan sympathetically. “That’s a nasty cough. You know, Doctor Turner, if you’d feel comfortable leaving this afternoon to me, I’d be more than happy to cover while you take him home.”  
Normally, Patrick would have resisted such an offer – but he had seen the look on Timothy’s face.  
“Actually, John, that would be brilliant.” He clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Thank you very much. And you have our home number, if anything is urgent.”  
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor. And feel better, Timothy, old boy.”

Tim was straight to bed when they got home, and Patrick heated him up some of the housekeeper’s soup. As Patrick sat in the lamplight by his son’s bedside, it dawned on him that he hadn’t sat by Tim’s bed that way for years.   
“In your professional opinion, Dad… Would you say I’ll be all better by Christmas?”  
Patrick smiled at his son’s precocious tone. “I would say it’s very likely.”  
“Well then, that’s alright.” The boy settled back against the pillows. “We should probably send Miss Mannion a Christmas card.”  
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “It’s not quite Advent yet, Tim. But yes, at some point we probably ought to.”

Timothy fell asleep not long after that, and Patrick went to retrieve Shelagh’s latest letter. (She _was_ Shelagh to him, not Miss Mannion – even if he wasn’t yet brave enough to address her as such in his letters.) Her letters had been charming and as news-filled as ever, but the most recent one had hit Patrick square in the chest. He was still musing over how best to reply to it.

 

_Dear Doctor Turner,_

_Winter has truly arrived here, as it must have done in London. We had our first dusting of snow last night, and I can imagine how deep it might get come the middle of winter._

_I have all the usual Crovie news – but yesterday there was a rather sobering incident that I must tell you about. I may have mentioned old Mr. Reid? He is a retired fisherman, and lives with his wife in one of the seaside cottages. Morag and I were visiting them yesterday afternoon. In the Great War, Mr. Reid served at Ypres – and although till now I’d seen no sign of it, it is clear that he suffers from what they used to call ‘shell shock’._

_I have no idea what brought on the attack, nor do I suppose it is any of my business. I am, however, slightly ashamed to say that my nurse’s instinct almost led me to try and take charge of the situation. Thank goodness I refrained. Mrs. Reid was able to calm her husband, and in doing so afforded him more dignity and tenderness than a stranger ever could have managed. I found myself quite moved. (Of course, Morag didn’t turn a hair. She simply squeezed Mr. Reid’s shoulder as we left.)_

_I thought I would tell you this, because it’s always been clear to me that you have the utmost respect for your patients. The human aspect of medicine is something I think too few doctors are willing or able to really consider. I shall never forget the vehemence with which you argued for an X-ray van in Poplar._

 

She went on to discuss other things, but Patrick had read the letter several times. It was these early paragraphs he wondered how best to respond to.

She was deeply compassionate, of course _–_ he knew that. She had not judged Mr. Reid, nor any patient he’d ever seen her work with. But could he really tell her of his own, long-buried struggles? Now? When such hopeful-but-tentative honesty had been spun across the miles between them?

But that was it, wasn’t it? Honesty. He _wanted_ to be open with her…or how could he ever hope she might be open with him? Breathing deeply, Patrick took up his pen. He could always redraft the letter, if he needed to.

_Dear Miss Mannion,_

_Thank you for sharing with me your experience at the Reid’s house. Throughout my career, I have of course seen many such cases, and in each the human cost of war is written plain. It is small wonder you were moved – I’ve always known you to be a deeply compassionate person._

_This leads me to another subject, one I am not certain how to broach. I can only try to explain, and hope that you will understand. What I mean to say is this… My experience of illnesses such as Mr. Reid’s is not limited to what I’ve seen in my professional capacity. I myself suffered a mental breakdown as a result of the recent war. I was still a young doctor when fighting broke out, and in those long years I saw too much death. I was hospitalised for five months during 1945._

_I can only hope that this knowledge will not alter your opinion of me. I have been well for many years, and know to watch myself for signs of stress._

_I cannot think of anything more to say. To comment on the weather would seem facile. But I thank you again for your letter, and hope that you have not been too shocked by mine._

_Yours,  
Patrick Turner_

Patrick could not bring himself to attempt a redraft. Every word had been like wringing blood from a stone. He posted it that evening, before he could lose his nerve, and returned to read the Lancet by Timothy’s bedside.

In the days that followed, his mood took a noticeable turn. He showed little patience, and couldn’t rest until he’d heard from her – one way or another. When her letter finally arrived, he locked himself in the bathroom to read it.

_Dear Patrick,_

_I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to use your Christian name…but after your last letter, I don’t think I could bear to address you by your professional title._

_Thank you so very much for your letter. I can only imagine what it must have cost you to write it. I am honoured that you felt able to confide in me, and oddly glad that my letter raised the subject. (Though I do regret that I may have caused painful memories to resurface.)_

_As for your suggestion that this may cause my opinion of you to alter, please put that out of your head at once! I only hope that you were extended the same warm and dignified care you show to your own patients. Heaven knows you deserve it._

_I don’t know what else to write now, either. Perhaps in our next letters we will return to blithely discussing local news. (Though, of course, I would happily talk with you about almost anything.) I am somewhat anxious that this may take longer than usual to reach you, with the way the weather’s been lately. But please know that I answered your letter the moment I was able._

_Yours, as ever,  
Shelagh_

Patrick felt weak with relief as he leaned against the wall of the bathroom. She was too good. Too wonderful. It almost hurt, how much he loved her.

He folded the letter back into the envelope, and tucked it into his breast pocket, near to his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're on first name terms! Things are going to pick up a little from here...but please note, the Slow Burn tag still applies! ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a little interlude, really...

A Christmas card from Crovie arrived almost as soon as the Turners had sent theirs. Patrick wondered if the cards might have crossed paths on their way. Shelagh’s was addressed to the both of them, and immediately took pride of place atop the piano.

“I hope ours gets there in time. I really think you’re supposed to send them sooner,” Timothy fretted, as he laced up his school shoes.  
“Oh, it’ll get there,” Patrick assured him, though he frowned. Tim was long over the worst of his illness, but a lingering cough still remained. Perhaps the boy wasn’t getting enough fresh air? Patrick felt quietly guilty.

He raised the subject almost by accident with Doctor Buchanan, who asked how Tim was getting on at school. John nodded sympathetically.  
“I had bad asthma when I was thirteen. I was sent to stay with my cousins in the country…and by the time they’d chased me around for a few weeks, my lung capacity was much improved.”  
Patrick chuckled wryly. “I can imagine.”

Christmas came and went, and in early February John joined them at the flat for dinner. Timothy told him all the things he’d recently learned at Cub Scouts, and how one day he planned to sleep out overnight in the wilderness. (Patrick then offered to give his son a crash course on the facts of hypothermia.)

A week or so later, Patrick had a phone call from Doctor Buchanan’s superiors. They were interested in his progress, and in no rush to move him away – though they were keen that he should be extended by all available opportunities.

“Your reports of his work have certainly been glowing.”  
“They've been honest. He's a very capable young man.”  
“Which is why my colleagues and I have a suggestion…” He could hear the senior doctor smile. “I hope you will give it some thought. We see from your records that you have not taken leave since…well, for quite some time. Would you perhaps consider taking a sabbatical?”  
Patrick blinked, and opened his mouth, but before he could formulate any words the man continued.  
“I hasten to add, though I’m sure it’s not necessary, that we have the very highest opinion of _your_ work, Doctor Turner. I hope you don’t feel we are trying to get you out of the way. That couldn’t be further from the truth! But if the idea of taking a sabbatical _did_ appeal to you, this might be a valuable opportunity.”

Patrick felt slightly ashamed that his first thought was of Shelagh, when really it ought to have been of Timothy. _But_ , he thought, his mind beginning to race, why couldn’t his plans be for both of them? Tim would benefit from some time in the country air, after all.

Patrick sat down and wrote to Crovie that evening.

_Dear Shelagh,_

_I hope this finds you warm and well, and still enjoying the new year. The new year in Poplar looks just like the old one – although there is one point of difference._

_I have been offered the chance of a sabbatical, while Doctor Buchanan is here to carry the load. I’d be a fool to turn it down. I haven’t taken proper leave since Timothy was born, and even then only briefly. Besides, I think Tim would benefit from a change of scene. His cough is gone now – thank you for asking – but he’s still not as healthy as I’d like._

_This is where I have to ask a nerve-wracking question. How would you feel if Tim and I were to visit you at Crovie? Not immediately, of course, but in the Spring?_

_Please be assured that I will not come if I would be in any way intruding. I won’t make plans until I’ve heard from you._

_Now I think I had better stop writing, before I say anything too foolish. I will await your answer, and do my level best not to pack._

_Yours,  
Patrick_

 

Her response came quickly, and when it arrived it made Patrick grin like a fool.

_Dear Patrick,_

_That is wonderful news! You are very much deserving of a sabbatical. I really can’t think of anyone who deserves one more._

_And of course you and Timothy will be more than welcome at Crovie! I would never have dared to ask you to visit myself – I know how needed you are by the Poplar community. But if Doctor Buchanan is able to cover for you, then I shan’t feel too guilty._

_How long will you be able to stay? I’m sure one of the villagers will be happy to put you up in a guest room. And Morag will be delighted to meet you both – though do be prepared for her rather wicked sense of humour. I might have a word with her before you arrive._

_It will be wonderful to see you – and Timothy, of course. Please write back soon._

_Yours,  
Shelagh_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the letters, because that's the last of them!


	5. Chapter 5

The next weeks couldn’t pass quickly enough for Patrick’s liking – and yet, his mood was upbeat. Almost to the point of being embarrassing. Doctor Buchanan had gratefully accepted the offered opportunity, and they agreed on a date and a length of time. Patrick would take a sabbatical of one month – and while he didn’t expect to spend anything like that time in Crovie, at least the option was there.

He had written to Shelagh immediately to let her know his plans, and how soon she might expect him. The enthusiastic response he’d received had made his heart sing. Between her urgings that he and Timothy pack appropriate footwear, and her suggestions of sights the boy might like to see, Patrick felt oddly as though they all belonged to each other already. He even dared hope she might badger him about raincoats and footwear for years to come…though that was probably getting ahead of himself.

Or was it? If he asked, would she…come back with him? Marry him? He thought about buying a ring, but was somehow afraid that that might jinx it. She had needed distance from Poplar, after all. Could she bear to return, amidst the inevitable gossip? He couldn’t know for certain, just yet.

 

Timothy had right away been keen on the idea of a holiday, though Crovie may not have been top of his ideal list. But the thought of seeing Miss Mannion made up for that – and for the fact he’d have to take work with him from school. (Patrick had promised his teacher faithfully that it would all get completed.) Their holiday overlapped, though not perfectly, with the Spring hols – Timothy would get to leave a few weeks early.

The day they set off from Poplar, Patrick’s stomach was tight with nerves. They would break the long journey and stay at a country inn, so it wasn’t even as though he’d see Shelagh that evening. But even the day after felt unbelievably soon. The inn they stayed at was comfortable, though Timothy did have to do his homework in bed on his lap. Patrick insisted on lights out once the boy was done, and proceeded to lie awake for hours in the unfamiliar darkness. _Tomorrow_ , he would see her. They would talk.

The rest of the drive the following day went reasonably quickly. Timothy was intrigued by the changing landscape, and was ready with a surprising number of Scottish facts – but he was also unusually compliant and helpful. Patrick wondered if he sensed his father’s nerves.

As Shelagh had explained in her most recent letter, the village of Crovie was too narrow on its ledge to allow room for cars. Post and other supplies – and, in this case, visitors – had to approach by cart, down a steep path. Timothy was delighted, while Patrick looked wistfully over his shoulder at the parked MG.

The cart-ride wasn’t really the thing that had Patrick’s nerves jumping, however. He took in the sight of the village as they approached, almost unbearably conscious that Shelagh must be somewhere nearby. They leapt off the cart at the bottom, gathering up their cases, and Timothy pulled out the map Shelagh had drawn, that labelled each of the row of houses. She had arranged for a Mrs. MacDiarmid to have the two of them to stay.

“I think it’s this one,” said Timothy, striding towards one of the houses.  
“You _think_? It ought to be clear, from…” Patrick trailed off hopelessly, as his son cheerfully knocked at the door. It opened a few moments later, revealing a middle-aged lady in an apron.  
“Hello,” said Timothy. “Are you Mrs. MacDiarmid?”  
Patrick strode forward to join his son, smiling apologetically. The woman smiled down at Timothy.  
“I am. And I’m going to hazard a guess that _you_ must be the doctor and his son, come up to visit from London?”  
“That’s right. Patrick Turner,” he shook her hand, “and this is Timothy. I believe you’ve kindly offered us a place to stay.”  
“You’re more than welcome, Doctor. Please come in.”

She showed them into a guest room made up with matching beds. It wasn’t spacious, but it was scrupulously clean. Timothy claimed the bed beside the small window. Once they had begun to unpack, they joined Mrs. MacDiarmid in her kitchen, and Patrick expressed his thanks once more.

“We’ll do you something nice for dinner,” said the woman, gesturing to a fish on the kitchen bench. Her eyes sparkled as she turned to Timothy. “In fact, I wonder, young man… Would you like to learn how to gut a fish?”  
“ _Yeah_!” said the boy at once, with what Patrick felt was unseemly enthusiasm. He couldn’t quite keep his own hands still.  
“I don’t suppose you happen to know where I’d find Miss Mannion, do you?”  
“Shelagh?” Mrs. MacDiarmid looked faintly amused, and then her expression turned thoughtful. “Well, if she’s not at Morag’s…no, I think this is the time of day she usually takes her walk. Up on the hill there, behind us.”  
“Ah… Well, it might be just as well to get my bearings. I’ll, err, head up the hill myself, if Tim doesn’t mind?”

Timothy did not. Patrick left him eagerly watching the lady sharpen a knife, and set off up a just-distinguishable hill track. It had probably once been a sheep path.

Patrick was barely halfway up the hill before he loosened his tie. The last thing he wanted was to be red in the face and winded when he saw her. He’d also removed his jacket by the time he reached the top, and it was pleasant to be outdoors in just his waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves. As he crested the hill, a stunning vista rolled out before him. He could see for miles. And along the cliffs, really quite close, he could see a figure coming towards him.

It was her.

It seemed to take them an age to reach each other, and as they got closer, Patrick could only stare. Oh God, she was beautiful. She was everything he had remembered, and more – she was no longer Sister Bernadette. Her hair was honey-coloured, and loose, and she was wearing a dress that might have been out of date by London standards, but that perfectly fit the country scene. And she still wore the same glasses – which Patrick had thought were pretty long before he’d had any right to.

She was smiling nervously, and Patrick hoped his face made his own feelings clear. They paused a few feet from each other.

“Hello.”  
“Hello, Patrick.”

The intensity of the moment was almost too much, and Shelagh let her eyes flicker demurely away before she looked back, slightly flustered.

“Where’s Timothy?”  
“Down in the village, with Mrs. MacDiarmid. Learning how to gut a fish.”  
“Ah.” She smiled again, knowingly, and Patrick felt his stomach flip.

Some part of his brain was screaming that she was _right there_ , and that it was madness that he hadn’t already caught her up and kissed her. But no – this was a first meeting, in a way. He and Shelagh Mannion were practically strangers. Strangers who knew each other very well.

She smiled a little awkwardly.  
“I, err… I hope the journey wasn’t too taxing?”  
“The cart-ride down the hill was certainly novel.”  
She laughed. “It is, isn’t it? You probably think I’ve fled to the ends of the earth.”  
There was some trepidation there, he realised. Patrick quickly shook his head.  
“It’s just as beautiful as you described.”  
He turned to take in the view again, and Shelagh looked pleased.  
“Shall we?” She gestured to the continuation of the track. “This is my usual walk.”

They fell into step with each other, walking deliberately slow – and being side-by-side somehow made things easier. Patrick found himself wanting to bring up subjects they’d discussed in their letters, as though to reassure himself they really had shared all those meaningful lines. They talked about Timothy, and the nurses and the nuns, and about Shelagh’s recovery.

“I’ll have another examination in a few months’ time, but it’s only precautionary. I’m really feeling very well.”  
“You look well.”  
It wasn’t half of what he wanted to say. But perhaps his eyes had said everything he hadn’t, because Shelagh smiled radiantly, just a hint of a blush to her cheeks.  
“Thank you…”

He was reluctant to end this first, private meeting – but he knew the walk couldn’t go on forever. When they had walked a loop, they looked down at Crovie together from the brow of the hill.

“Timothy will be far and away the youngest person in the village. And after that, I’m afraid it’s me!”  
They shared a laughing glance, but then Shelagh’s expression turned serious.  
“There was a terrible storm five years ago, that decimated the fishing trade here, and destroyed a few of the houses. Since then, most of younger folk have left.”  
“Oh… Well, I suppose I’ll fit right in,” Patrick joked, self-deprecatingly.  
She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and set off ahead of him at a quickened pace. Patrick grinned to himself, and followed her.

When they entered the village again, Shelagh pointed out each cottage and named its residents, or its old commercial use. Outside Mrs. MacDiarmid’s they paused, and Patrick hurried inside to fetch Tim. When the boy came out, his hands looked freshly-scrubbed.

“Hello, Miss Mannion,” he said shyly.  
“Hello, Timothy,” she beamed. “I see you’ve got taller.”  
“A bit,” he agreed. “It’s nice to see you.”  
“It’s lovely to see you! Now, why don’t you and your father come and meet Morag? We just live a few houses down the road.”

Morag’s house was similarly old-fashioned to all the others along Crovie’s shore. It was just what Patrick had imagined. As they entered the stone-floored kitchen, he felt a nervous leap at the thought of meeting a member of Shelagh’s family. He hoped her cousin wouldn’t view him as some kind of threat.

When they came in, Morag was bending over the fire, stoking the embers with a poker. She was an older woman, and slightly stooped, but her movements were brisk and decisive. She looked up and saw them all, and her expression hardly flickered.

“Oh, there’ye all are. Come in – the kettle’s just boiled.”  
Shelagh smiled nervously between them.  
“Morag, this is Doctor Turner – Patrick – and his son Timothy. And this is my cousin Morag.”  
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Patrick, extending a hand. The older woman shook it, smiling shrewdly, and now facing her, Patrick had more of a chance to take her in. Morag didn’t have quite the same delicacy of features that must have been passed down from Shelagh’s mother…but her eyes had something of the same perceptive light.

“And you, of course,” Morag nodded. “I believe there’s cake to go with the tea…though Wednesday isn’t our usual baking day. Can’t think what threw Shelagh off schedule.”  
Shelagh shot her cousin a warning look, and then flushed when she realised Patrick had seen her. He felt a warmth rising in his chest.   
“It’s just a cream sponge, I’m afraid…”    
Shelagh busied herself setting out plates, and the others all took seats round the table.  
“ _Just_?” Patrick raised his eyebrows. “It looks wonderful.”

“Thank you, Miss Mannion,” said Timothy politely, as she handed him the first plate.  
“Now tell me, laddie,” said Morag, leaning closer, “how in the world you managed to get away from school? I thought weens these days were practically chained there.”  
“Oh, that was Dad. He spoke to my teacher. It probably didn’t hurt that last year he fixed her son’s broken arm.”  
Tim’s tone was so blasé, Patrick nearly choked on his cake. He saw Shelagh smile into her teacup.  
“Is _that_ what it is?” Morag’s eyes sparkled. “It clearly pays to have a doctor for a father.”  
“I suppose,” nodded Tim. “Although I still had to bring lots of homework with me.”

While Morag commiserated with Timothy, Shelagh’s eyes met Patrick’s across the table – and again, he felt his stomach flip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert usual disclaimer about the author being a hopeless romantic]


	6. Chapter 6

By the time they had finished their tea and cake, the light on the hills outside was leaving. Patrick and Timothy were expected back at Mrs. MacDiarmid’s for dinner, so reluctantly bid Shelagh and Morag goodnight.

“If the weather’s fine tomorrow, I thought you might like to go down to the shore? And I could show you both a few other sights – after Timothy has completed his homework, of course,” Shelagh clarified, giving the boy a teasing smile.  
“That’d be lovely,” said Patrick, his eyes never leaving her face. He couldn’t help drinking in the sight of her, knowing they’d soon part for the evening.  
“Perhaps I’ll meet you after breakfast, and we can make plans?”  
Patrick nodded. “Excellent. Well, goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Miss Mannion. Goodnight Morag!” said Timothy.  
“And to you, lad,” the older lady smiled, beginning to clear the table of their cups.  
“Thank you very much for your hospitality,” Patrick nodded sincerely to Morag, who smiled. It was enough for him to hope that he might have made a reasonable impression. He gave Shelagh one last lingering smile as he and Timothy left.

Dinner at the MacDiarmid’s was a far cry from the standard Poplar fish and chips, but the local fish was fresh and delicious. Their hosts kept up a stream of cheery conversation, and by the time they retired to their rooms Patrick felt pleasantly weary.

He wasn’t certain he would sleep, however. Beneath the tiredness, his mind and body were alive. He had seen Shelagh. At that very moment, she was just a few houses down the road. And she was so very beautiful…With Timothy in the next bed, he couldn’t give his imagination free reign the way he might’ve – and had done – in the privacy of his room in Poplar. That was probably for the best, even if it did feel like torture.

Eventually, the sound of the sea lulled Patrick off to sleep. And when he woke, it was to sun through unfamiliar curtains, and a light, restless feeling in his chest. He realised after a moment that it was excitement.

As promised, they met up with Shelagh on the main street just after breakfast. (Patrick’s heart leapt again at the sight of her.) It was already looking to be a fine, warm day, and Timothy deplored the idea of homework. A compromise was reached – he would do his homework in Morag’s kitchen, and get to finish off the cake, while Shelagh and Patrick chatted and she did some mending.

Without Morag’s all-too-perceptive presence between them, this second meeting felt slightly more relaxed. Timothy nattered away about school in between mouthfuls of cake as he worked, leaving Patrick to take in the sight of them. Shelagh had always had such a way with Timothy.

After a while, the adults finally caved to Timothy’s pleading. Shelagh took a basket, in case they might want to gather shellfish – a concept which was unfamiliar but fascinating to Tim.

The sea was practically on their doorstep, the low tide exposing a beach of stones and craggy rocks.  
“It’s hardly Brighton, I know,” smiled Shelagh self-consciously, as Timothy went ahead of them, bending to remove his shoes and socks.  
“Maybe not…but it’s peaceful.”  
“Come on, Dad!” Timothy called over his shoulder, already picking his way over the rocks.  
Patrick rolled his eyes and, with an apologetic smile to Shelagh, balanced on one leg to untie his shoe. His mouth nearly fell open when she did the same, and he realised she intended on joining them. Extremely unhelpful thoughts about stockings – or the lack thereof – rose up in Patrick’s mind, and he averted his eyes resolutely.  
“I’ll, err, just catch up with Tim…”

Resisting the urge to look back, Patrick picked his way carefully across the rocks to the water’s edge. Timothy was dipping a toe in a rock pool, distracted from the sea itself by the pool’s inhabitants.  
“Not going for a paddle, son?”  
The boy looked up, his eyes alight with challenge. “You first!”  
“Right-oh,” said Patrick blithely, rolled up his trousers to mid-calf, and stepped off the rock into the shallow water.

It was freezing.

“Bloody hell!”  
“ _Dad_!” Timothy looked appalled. “You don’t swear in front of ladies!”  
Trying not to cringe at the cold, Patrick looked back at his son – and at Shelagh, who had caught them up and was now at Timothy’s shoulder.  
“I’m sure Miss Mannion will forgive me.”  
Shelagh cast him an appraising sort of smile.  
“On this occasion…”

She was teasing him, he realised. That was…new. The light in her eyes almost bordered on flirtatious. Patrick swallowed, and managed a laugh, and stepped back up onto the rocks.  
“I probably should’ve mentioned, this isn’t really a swimming beach,” Shelagh continued, as she and Timothy shared a laughing look. “Except perhaps in the height of summer.”

Patrick tried not to let his eyes stray, but she was definitely bare-legged now, if she hadn’t been so earlier. And she was impressively nimble over the rocks, showing Timothy where and how to gather the right size of shellfish. (Apparently Morag made a very good chowder.)

Timothy had been watching her with a thoughtful smile when he posed a question out of the blue.  
“Is it nice, not being a nun?”  
“ _Timothy_ …”  
Patrick had flushed with mortification, but Shelagh gave him a quick, reassuring smile before turning back to the boy. She seemed to be formulating an answer.  
“It meant a great deal to me. But it also closed me off from whole aspects of life…seaside paddling included.”  
She delivered that example with a sparkling smile, and Timothy grinned, apparently accepting the explanation.

As they made their way back towards dry ground, the boy started to whistle, and Patrick recognised the tune – ‘I Do Like To Be Beside the Seaside’. The two adults shared a smile. It struck Patrick with a slight pang how much Timothy was lighting up under sustained attention from interested adults. From himself and Shelagh, particularly.

The tide was slowly coming in, creating larger pools between the rocks, and Patrick couldn’t resist offering Shelagh his hand as they navigated the trickier areas. Her eyes went wide for a moment, but she accepted his hand – and when he dared to look back again, he caught her reining in a smile.

“Come on – you two are taking forever!”

It was a considerable effort to let her hand go, when they were back on dry and level ground.

 

And that was how the first days went, at Crovie. Paddling, and a picnic, and walks on the hills, always with Timothy cheerfully present. And a still-unspoken, but increasing acknowledgement of all that had grown between them. Patrick was, if not quite _relaxed_ , then undeniably happy.

And he was absolutely, irrevocably in love. The Shelagh Mannion he had come to know through her letters, the Sister Bernadette with whom he’d first fallen in love…they were blended inextricably in Shelagh as he knew her now, at Crovie. There was a new confidence about her, too. Patrick couldn’t put his finger on quite what was the difference…except that she seemed to laugh louder, and more freely. Perhaps Morag had been an influence there. At any rate, she was entrancing.

Tim was happy too. The boy was uncomplaining about his homework, so long as Patrick or Morag or Shelagh sat with him. And he had realised the capacity of a rural holiday for ticking off all sorts of Cub Scout activities.

“I could definitely get my Wildlife badge for gathering shellfish. And my Hill Walker badge for the other day. You’ll have to tell Akela that I’ve done all these things!” the boy enthused to his father.  
“I don’t suppose there’s a badge for helping to take in the washing?”  
Shelagh’s smile was teasing, and Morag shook her head in disgust.  
“Och, leave the child alone!”  
Timothy shot her a winning smile, but went to help Shelagh nonetheless. That left Patrick and Morag the only ones still in the kitchen.

“And how’re’ye finding it, now that you’re all settled in?”  
“Oh, it’s lovely here,” Patrick smiled, only slightly nervous now at being left alone with Shelagh’s cousin. “The perfect change of scenery from Poplar.”  
“I was saying to Brian – that’s Mr. Reid – that we ought to all get together to welcome you properly. The whole village can pretty well fit into anyone’s kitchen, you’ll be astonished to hear.”  
“Oh, well, that would be very kind,” Patrick blinked, such hospitality being unexpected. “Though I wouldn’t want anyone to go out of their way.”  
“Nothing’s too far out of the way for a wee dram and a sing-song.”

Shelagh and Timothy came back in, their arms full of freshly-dried bedsheets.  
“I’ve had another idea, Dad,” the boy announced, grinning. “I want to spend a night sleeping out under the stars!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that the rating will become relevant fairly soon...


	7. Chapter 7

Patrick was not immediately sold on Tim’s idea of sleeping out, alone, on a Crovie hilltop. The boy was entirely over his illness of the winter, but a Londoner like Patrick had natural hesitations about his son being out alone at night.

“Really Dad, I’ll be fine! I’ll just be up on the brow of that hill! And if the weather turns bad, I could build a bivvy!”  
Patrick frowned. “Out of what, heather?”  
“ _If_ the weather turns bad,” corrected Shelagh, “you’ll be straight down the hill, and home easily within five minutes. And then we’ll warm you up in front of the fire.”  
She cast an apologetic smile in Patrick’s direction.  
“I understand your reservations, Patrick…but he really would be fine. I slept outdoors in the country a couple of times as a child myself, and the worst I ever encountered was a sheep.”  
Timothy sat up and smiled triumphantly, as though he knew the argument had been won. Patrick sighed. Tim clearly knew his weakness.  
“Only to the brow of the hill, no further. And we’re going to pick a good clear evening.”

Morag’s plan for a village get-together was also in the works, and it was decided that everyone should come round to the Reids’ house on Saturday night. They spent the afternoon of that day readying Timothy for his adventure. Mr. MacDiarmid offered his bed roll and sleeping bag and two torches, and was thoroughly in support of the ‘expedition’.

Having waited all day for it to get dark, Timothy was waved off at Morag’s back door by Patrick, Morag, and Shelagh.  
“He’ll be fine,” said Shelagh soothingly, as they watched the boy stride off up the hill in the twilight.  
“Of course he will,” said Morag. “And in his young life, that boy will never have _seen_ so many stars. You can’t see them properly near city lights.”  
“That’s a point,” Patrick smiled. It _was_ good to see Timothy spread his wings – he’d just have to get over his fatherly worries.

“Right,” said Morag, briskly. “Brian said we were all welcome any time after seven o’clock.”

 

In one of the last letters he’d sent from Poplar, Patrick had asked what he ought to bring as a thank you for his hosts. Shelagh had promised that it really wasn’t necessary…but that no one would say no to a bottle of Scotch. He was faintly nervous about meeting the whole community, and was glad he had something to bring.

He had brushed himself up as best he could, and hoped he looked casually respectable. When Morag and Shelagh met him outside the MacDiarmids', he couldn’t help noticing that she’d dressed up slightly too. At least, he thought she had. Every little thing she did with her hair seemed to be prettier than the last.

“Ah, the man himself! Come in, Doctor Turner, come in!”  
The Reids' kitchen was pleasantly crowded, everyone seated on borrowed, mismatched chairs. There were welcoming smiles as they entered, and cries of greeting to Shelagh and Morag.  
“Have a seat, Patrick,” said Mr. MacDiarmid. “We _can_ call you Patrick, I hope?”  
“Of course!” He smiled good-naturedly, and proffered the bottle of Scotch. “My contribution…”  
“Ahh,” old Mr. Reid winked. “You’re very welcome indeed.”

He _had_ hoped he might get to sit beside Shelagh, but in the chaos of welcome and the shuffling of chairs she ended up seated across from him. He couldn’t mind this too much, however – he enjoyed watching her chat animatedly with the older ladies. They were obviously very fond of her, and he liked them all the better for that immediately.

“And where’s your lad this evening? All tucked up in bed?”  
“Actually,” Patrick smiled regretfully, “he’s out camping under the stars. He’s a Cub Scout, and very enthusiastic.”  
This was met with merry grins.  
“He’ll be safe as houses.”  
“Aye, the wolves are lazy this time o’ year.”  
“Shut up, Angus.”

It wasn’t long before Mr. Reid was cracking open the whisky and pouring everyone a glass.  
“Morag?”  
“Have I ever said no?”  
“Shelagh?”  
“Ooh, just a wee dram…”

Patrick’s face must have registered surprise, because she gave him a laughing smile, and shrugged as if to say ‘why not’. When everyone had a glass of something, Mr. Reid proposed a toast.  
“To our honoured guest. You’re very welcome.”  
Across the room, amid the clink of glasses, he saw Shelagh trying not to look terribly pleased.

“So, Patrick, you’re a doctor…”  
From that point, conversation flowed easily. The people of Crovie were excellent talkers, there was no doubt about that. Patrick might in fact have received the Wilsons’ entire medical history if Shelagh hadn’t tactfully changed the subject. The whisky was good, and took the edge off Patrick’s nerves. He felt perfectly able to talk to these down-to-earth people.

He was on his second glass when Mr. Reid produced a fiddle. There was a bit of banter about “showing the Englishman how it’s done”, at which Patrick laughed and confessed to knowing less about string instruments than his son did. (His son who, he couldn’t help mentioning, was really very good on the violin.) Mr. Reid played a few old tunes, some of which the others sang along with, and then the floor appeared to be open. Mr. MacDiarmid turned out to have a fine tenor voice – and when it was Morag’s turn, she told an innuendo-laden joke that had Patrick choking on his whisky and Shelagh’s eyes resolutely fixed on the ceiling.

“That’s enough o’ that, now, Morag. Why don’t _you_ sing us something, Shelagh?”  
“Oh, I don’t think that’s really-”

Her attempt to demur was shouted down by further raucous encouragement. (Several people had had plenty to drink, by this stage.) Patrick couldn’t tell whether it was the heat of the room, or embarrassment – or perhaps the one little glass of whisky she'd had – but her cheeks were prettily flushed. Patrick felt traitorous for siding with the others, but couldn’t deny how much he wanted to hear her sing.

“Why don’t ye sing that old favourite of Mairi’s? In the Gaelic? You know the one.”  
“Shelagh’s mother had a voice like _silver_ ,” Mrs. MacDiarmid explained earnestly, leaning towards Patrick. “Many’s the evening we had her here, in the old days.”

Shelagh still looked slightly uncomfortable. It was almost as though she wanted her cousin’s permission to call back to their shared past. But Morag smiled, and softly said, “Go on, lass.”

Shelagh acquiesced with good grace, despite being visibly flustered.  
“Alright. Alright.”  
Her eyes flitted towards Patrick for a moment, and then quickly away. Mr. Reid took up his fiddle, and gave her a single note.

Patrick had known through word of mouth that she was an excellent singer. He had overheard the Sisters lamenting the loss of her voice, when she had first left for the sanatorium. But until now, he had never actually heard her sing.

There was no need for any accompaniment. The kitchen full of people, all in varying states of sobriety, were suddenly silent and respectfully still. Patrick couldn’t understand a word of the language, but the melody was plaintive and bittersweet. Shelagh’s eyes were closed in remembering – her mother, or the melody, or the words – and Patrick leaned back in his chair, feeling the whisky-softened world spin gently.

On the last verse, Morag joined in in harmony – and though her voice was nothing like so fine as Shelagh’s, it made something catch in Patrick’s chest. Particularly when Shelagh opened her eyes, and he saw that they were bright with emotion.

Everyone applauded as the song finished, more politely than they had either for Mr. MacDiarmid or Mr. Reid. Shelagh blushed, and smiled round the room nervously. She made to take a sip from her glass, but found it empty upon raising it to her lips. Her eyes were still noticeably bright – the song had clearly affected her.

“I…might just step outside for a moment…”

Feeling a pang of concern and sympathy, Patrick watched her go. The villagers quickly and pointedly returned to their conversations, some of them now looking slightly regretful. When Patrick turned to Morag, however, the older woman’s eyes were already on him.

“What was the name of that song,” he asked, “that you and Shelagh were singing?”  
Morag’s expression was inscrutable.  
“For a rough translation? My Gallant Hero.” Then she gave a subtle smile. “Or, My Dashing Darling.”

He tried to ignore her sly implication. The song had been Shelagh’s mother’s favourite. Making a decision, Patrick quickly downed the rest of his Scotch. He didn’t care how obvious it might look – he got to his feet and followed her.

He found Shelagh just outside the door, leaning against the front wall of the Reids’ house. In the glow from a nearby window, he could make out faint tear-tracks drying on her cheeks. She looked up when he approached, and dabbed at her eyes hastily.  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to abandon you.”  
Patrick smiled, and shook his head. “You didn’t.”

Pretending more casualness than either of them felt, he came to lean against the wall beside her. Mirroring her stance, he, too, fixed his eyes on the sea – though he was keenly aware of how close they were standing. Their shoulders almost touched. For a few moments, there was a companionable silence between them.

“That’s the first thing I’ve sung in years that wasn’t plainsong,” said Shelagh, eventually. “I’ve missed it.” Then she laughed wryly to herself. “Of course, I miss plainsong, now.”

“It was beautiful.”

His tone was so sincere that Shelagh looked across at him, and smiled. Patrick's heart lurched. Her eyes, though still slightly red, were _beautiful_ – and he had never seen her face so open.

He was the first to look away, afraid he might lose all restraint and kiss her. They had come so far, and so carefully – he wanted, _needed_ to get this moment right. But as he stared at the sea, Patrick knew he had to say something. When would they next be so alone?

After the next crash of the waves on the rocks, he would tell her. After the _next_ …

The _next_ …

“I’m in love with you, Shelagh. You know that.”

Somehow, over the roar of the sea, he heard her draw a shaky breath. Heard her breathe in, and out again.

“Yes.”

One, breathless, almost-whispered syllable.

He thought for a moment that that was all she was going to say, until he felt his hand enclosed in her small one. Heart thudding, Patrick finally turned his head – and found her looking not at his face, but regarding their joined hands intently. He didn’t breathe as she raised his hand to her lips.

The kiss she pressed against his knuckles rendered Patrick utterly speechless. Every detail of her face, her cheeks, her lashes, stood out in the half-light, and he was spellbound. His chest rose and fell with unsteady breathing.

Suddenly a noise broke through, as though from a great distance. In the Reids’ kitchen, just beyond the wall, the villagers had once more started singing. Patrick followed Shelagh’s gaze, and remembered just as she did that they were only a few feet from discovery.

When he turned back, he found her looking up at him, her eyes full of warm entreaty.

“Walk me home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone's curious, the song that Shelagh sings in this chapter is 'Mo Ghile Mear'. It sounds like a love song, but was actually a political metaphor about Scotland and Ireland and Bonnie Prince Charlie. And inconveniently for this fic, it's actually sung in Irish Gaelic, not Scots. If you want to listen to a version, I recommend Mary Black's. 
> 
> My excuse for using it is that when I was planning this fic I found a modernised version of the lyrics, which were too perfect not to use as inspiration:
> 
> _Can you feel the river run?_   
>  _Waves are dancing to the sun_   
>  _Take the tide and face the sea_   
>  _And find a way to follow me_
> 
> _Leave the field and leave the fire_   
>  _And find the flame of your desire_   
>  _Set your heart on this far shore_   
>  _And sing your dream to me once more_
> 
> God, I'm such a sap.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a strange elation that Patrick felt as he and Shelagh walked slowly back towards Morag’s. It was almost as though he was watching himself from a distance, though at the same time his every sense felt sharp. Shelagh hadn’t let go of his hand yet – and just the feel of her hand in his seemed to take up all of his attention.

For a long while, words seemed unnecessary. It was only when they approached Morag’s house that Patrick cleared his throat.

“I hope it wasn’t terribly rude to sneak away from a party held in my honour.”  
Shelagh smiled, a trifle guiltily.  
“I’m sure they’ll understand. The last time Morag went round to the Reids’, she and Brian sat up smoking and talking till 3.”  
“Well then, even if I’d stayed, I could hardly have kept up with them.”

It was good to see her smile, after the poignant turn the evening had taken. Patrick knew adoration must be written all over his face, and, at last, there was no reason to hide it.

Outside Morag’s front door, Shelagh turned nervously to face him. He thought he saw her blush in the moonlight.  
“Would you come in?”

He followed Shelagh into the half-lit kitchen, and watched as she moved towards the sink.  
“I could make a pot of tea…? Or is it too late in the evening?”  
He could tell by the way she bustled about that she was just as electric with nerves as he was. Morag’s kitchen suddenly felt very small.  
“Oh, I’m quite alright, thank you. Unless you’d like one.”  
A moment later, Patrick wished he’d accepted. It would have given him something to do with his hands.

Once she’d given up on the idea of tea, there was nothing for Shelagh to do but to face him. Taking a deep breath, she stepped closer, and bravely reached for his hand.

“I know we…haven’t really had a chance to talk. I don’t know if I’ve even thanked you for coming.”  
Patrick raised his eyebrows, feeling she’d misunderstood who had done who a favour.  
“Thank you for _letting_ me come.”

They shared a hopeless, amused sort of smile, both apparently struggling for quite what to say. Patrick, for his part, was increasingly distracted by the idle way she’d started playing with his fingers. She was so sweetly nervous, he didn’t think she even knew she was doing it. Those little caresses made it very hard to think.

“I’m so glad you wrote to me, Patrick. And that we kept writing.”  
“So am I...”  
“I really feel I know you, from your letters. And from…everything before.” She took a deep breath, and looked steadily up at him. “I couldn’t be more certain.”  
Patrick’s heart swelled. “I am _completely_ certain. I know our situation hasn’t been simple…”  
“But it _feels_ simple, now. Doesn’t it?”

God, the way she was looking at him... The air felt thick.

He tilted his head towards her, if only to bring them marginally closer.  
“Yes. It does.”

A wayward lock of hair had fallen into his eyes, and Shelagh smiled as she reached to fix it. At the touch of her hand on his face, Patrick’s own smile faded.

One, two, three seconds passed, her eyes locked with his…

And it was like a dam broke between them.

The rush of her breath against his lips came in a sigh of relief, that thrilled Patrick almost as much as their kisses. And God, their kisses. Shelagh’s mouth was sweet and soft and pliant under his, and Patrick felt his temperature rise in an instant. Shelagh steadied herself at his shoulders with both hands, his own hands urgently seeking her waist.

He _meant_ to pull away, after a moment. He really did. But then her hands were in his hair, her inexperience doing nothing at all to hamper the effect she had on him. And after _months_ of wanting her, of poring over her letters, to finally feel her real and warm and tangible…wonderfully tangible…

It was only when a frankly yearning noise escaped her throat that Patrick realised where his hand had nearly strayed. The realisation was like being doused in freezing water. He gasped as he tore himself away.

“I’m _sorry_ , Shelagh…”

Patrick struggled to catch his breath, staring remorsefully across the space between them. Shelagh’s cheeks were flooded with colour, and he realised with mild despair that she looked _more_ beguiling now than a moment previously. He ached for her.

“I’m not.”

Patrick thought he must have misheard, but Shelagh shook her head.

“I can’t be.”

He must have looked uncomprehending, because Shelagh heaved a breath, and frowned at her feet to gather her thoughts. When she looked up, her expression was serious.

“Not when…I could’ve died last year, Patrick. In the summer. Older than my mother was, but knowing less of…life.” 

The frankness of the emotion in Shelagh’s eyes stunned him. So that was what had struck her earlier, while singing her mother’s favourite song. A painful, flaring awareness of mortality – not just her mother’s, but her own. Patrick more than understood. He longed to hold her.

“And, anyway…I’m in love with you, Patrick.”  
She spoke quickly, seeming embarrassed now. Almost cross that she’d had to explain.  
“I have been for… _so_ long. So don’t apologise.”

Patrick found he could hardly speak, the mix of love and relief and empathy was so intense. He cleared his throat.

“Still, I…hope you feel sure that I am…generally speaking, a gentleman.”

Shelagh’s mouth twitched in a smile, and he thought she very nearly rolled her eyes.

“As if that could have escaped my notice…”

She stepped closer then, into the space he’d carefully put between them. Patrick felt his pulse pick up.

“Shelagh…”

She reached out and touched the material of his tie, effectively closing the distance. It was such a casually intimate touch that Patrick’s heart stuttered. She trusted him, he knew, and what they were to each other.

Patrick breathed a sigh as he finally stepped in, bending to kiss her forehead lovingly. Her eyes fell closed and she tilted her face upwards, blindly seeking more from him. He kissed a tender path from her forehead down, carefully skirting around her glasses, hoping he might somehow master himself by the time he reached her lips. When she sighed into his kiss, however, Patrick was all too quickly lost. Their kisses started slow this time, but that only seemed to make them more potent.

As the heat rose between them again, Patrick could feel his already-tenuous control slipping.  
“Shelagh…” he murmured, between increasingly fevered kisses. “I think…God…I think we should stop. _I_ should stop.”  
She leaned her forehead against his chin, taking a moment to catch her breath. When she spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.

“ _What if…I don’t want you to stop?_ ”

Patrick’s eyes fell closed. He barely managed to stifle a groan. Needing a moment, he buried his nose in Shelagh’s hair, trying vainly to pull himself together. Breathing in the scent of her hair didn’t exactly _help_ …though in another way it was strangely calming.

He hadn’t expected anything like this. The idea that Shelagh might be half as affected by their kisses as _he was_ was…dizzying.

He probably ought to push her gently away, and bid her goodnight. That would be the respectable thing – and in theory the respect _ful_ one. But it had never struck Patrick as particularly respectful to presume to know a woman’s wishes better than she knew them herself. In either direction.

And of course, there was how very badly he wanted her.

She had asked him once, _Who is it who decides what is forgivable and unforgivable?_ In the moment, he’d replied that he thought she knew that better than he did. And he _had_ been talking about God, he supposed. But he’d also meant that what she would allow was for her, and only her, to decide. Now, through the haze of desire, he realised that the same thing held true. If the question was ‘Who decides’, then, for him, the answer could only be Shelagh. _He_ had no fears, certainly, that loving her could be a sin. Or in any other way dangerous, since he fully intended to marry her.

He realised belatedly that his prolonged silence might be interpreted as judgement.  
“If you don’t want me to stop,” Patrick murmured, raggedly, hardly believing what he was about to say, “then…” He swallowed. “Then I won’t.”

Shelagh pulled back then, enough to look up into his eyes. The love and trust and passion he saw reflected in hers floored him. Then, in a few more seconds, he was kissing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, the slow burn came to an end.
> 
> I'm posting these two chapters together. The next one will be up before the weekend is out, I promise!
> 
> I was (am?) a little nervous about taking things in this direction, but it's what I planned from the start. It's an AU, after all. Please be kind?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change, and read with discretion.

_Shelagh pulled back then, enough to look up into his eyes. The love and trust and passion he saw reflected in hers floored him. Then, in a few more seconds, he was kissing her._

Her gasp against his lips became a heady sigh of approval as Patrick pulled her tight against him. He had wanted to do that for so long now. Shelagh clung to his shoulders, fervently kissing him back. When he started trailing kisses down her neck, she pushed gently at his shoulders.  
“Patrick? Come with me.”

He loved to hear her say his name, his given one. He would have to tell her that, sometime when he was slightly more coherent. For now he followed, led by the hand through the door he’d imagined before now might well lead to her bedroom. It was small, and not unlike the guest room he and Timothy shared, save for a few feminine touches.

A bedside lamp cast the room in soft, golden light, making Shelagh look if possible even lovelier. Her breathing was short as she placed his hands back on her waist, wordlessly asking him to resume the attentions she’d interrupted. Patrick needed no further encouragement. As he lavished open-mouthed kisses on her neck, he felt Shelagh’s fingers tighten in the material of his jacket – and God, just _that_ made him feel heady. He needed to know what other reactions he might be able to elicit.

When he moved his hand to cup her breast, he was rewarded with a barely-stifled moan. He felt drunk, though the whisky was a long time ago. He could hardly believe he was allowed to touch her like this. His thumb teased at her nipple through the fabric, and as though by helpless instinct Shelagh pressed her hips forward. The noise Patrick made in response was completely involuntary.

He needed to see more of her. The hint of collarbone at the neck of her dress was tantalising.  
“Shelagh…darling…” He pulled back, panting, and paused to kiss her forehead. “Please can I…if you’re sure, can we take this off you?”  
Shelagh nodded breathlessly and reached for the top button of her dress, but found her own hands gently moved aside. He wanted to do this, if she’d let him.

Time seemed to move somehow faster _and_ slower than usual, as Patrick reverently undressed her.  
Half out of her dress, and then down to her underthings, Shelagh blushed under his openly desiring gaze – but she took advantage of his slack-jawed admiration to set to work loosening his tie. His jacket followed swiftly after.

They drifted slowly nearer to the bed, Patrick divested of more and more of his clothing. Beside the bed, he took a moment to gather her into his arms. Already he was less than perfectly coherent, but there was still so much he wanted to say. He settled for stroking the warm skin of her back, and kissing her sweetly, almost chastely. She seemed to understand, by her tremulous smile.

Soon he was so distracted by the feather-light kisses Shelagh brushed along his jaw that he didn’t immediately notice she had reached to undo her brassiere. When he did realise, however, all the air left his lungs in a rush.

“ _God_ , Shelagh…”

Flushing, she tossed the quilt aside and lay herself down on the bed, mussed hair golden on the pillow. Patrick raked his eyes over the vision she presented. Then he began to divest himself of his trousers – for the moment, his underwear could remain.

He joined her on the bed, nestling into her side. Shelagh seemed suddenly to remember that she was still wearing her glasses, and together they set them carefully on her table. Patrick took the opportunity to drop light kisses on her now-entirely-accessible cheeks. Kisses that moved slowly, promisingly downward.

He couldn’t help pressing against her a little, as her chest began to heave. The heat of his own desire was insistent, but he would see her brought to pleasure first – while he still had some restraint to count on.

Patrick revelled in each breathy noise he provoked, over the next glorious minutes. His hands on her, all over her, were worshipful, and his mouth was no less occupied. When his lips closed around a peaking nipple, Shelagh actually whimpered, and he had to recite the Hippocratic Oath in his head.

Patrick’s hand moved questioningly downwards, until he reached the band of her underwear, and she gave an ardent nod. Together, they removed them.

Seeing Shelagh given over to pleasure was the most breathtaking thing. And knowing he was the cause of it… He delighted in every moan and whimper, in the slightly desperate noise she made when he suddenly returned his lips to her breast. He could feel the tremors in her body, feel her slowly tensing. And when pleasure overtook her, Patrick held her as she shuddered against him.

When, some moments later, she raised her face to look at him, her expression was rather dazed.  
“Goodness…”  
It was somehow such a very Shelagh thing to say that Patrick couldn’t help the joyous laugh that escaped him. Then he kissed her quickly, sweetly, so she’d know he wasn’t laughing _at_ her.

“ _You_ ,” he said, pulling away from the kiss, “are…”  
He stared and then shook his head hopelessly, and Shelagh looked gratified by his lack of coherence.

Her fingers, with a tentative but definite interest, were now skirting the edge of his underwear. Patrick quickly arrested her hand, and fervently kissed it. Just the _idea_ of her touching him was…almost too much for his state of arousal.

“Patrick…?”  
“Are you sure you want-”  
“I’m sure, Patrick. Please.”

Freed from his underwear, he settled over her cautiously.  
“I don’t want to crush you…”  
“I’m not made of porcelain, Patrick.”  
Her impatience was intensely flattering.  
“You’re beautiful.”

He moved, at first, as slowly as he could manage, carefully watching her face for discomfort. There were no words, there was nothing, but the way they moved. It was incredible.

Afterwards, as he slowly came back to himself – as seconds ran by with her in his arms, without either of them saying anything – Patrick became aware of a tension within him. His body telling him that he was blissfully sated, while his heart strained at the thought that Shelagh might come to regret this. Might possibly regret it already, now that the urgency had cooled.

Her hair tickled his chin as she tilted her head.

“I’m still not sorry, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

The relief Patrick felt was intense, and immediate. There was no doubt in her voice whatsoever. He moved quickly down the bed so that their faces were level, and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.  
“I couldn’t be sorry if I tried,” he told her, honestly. “Unless you were.”  
Shelagh smiled, and shook her head. He felt so impossibly close to her.

As her fingers played idly on his chest, Shelagh’s expression became distant, and thoughtful.

“I think…when I was first out of the convent, I used to judge the unmarried women we served. For all that I would’ve said that I didn’t. And I can’t put my finger on exactly when that changed… Though I know living in Poplar was good for me. In lots of ways.” She gave him a meaningful smile. “Anyway, if I ever judged, I feel suitably chastened now. Well, perhaps _chastened_ is the wrong word.”  
Patrick kissed her shoulder. “You’re divine.”

In the next few moments’ silence, Patrick felt the inexorable pull of what he was going to say. Or rather, ask. He only hoped he could articulate it properly.

“Don’t laugh when I say this… How far away is Gretna?”

That had _not_ been how he’d planned to put it. He hadn’t even had Gretna in mind, particularly. Not as more than an idle, romantic dream. But Shelagh’s eyes snapped up to his, and he felt understanding flash between them. Flash, and light, and spread, into something silent and joyous.

Then, perhaps needing to break the intensity of the moment, Shelagh looked down at their state of undress, and pointedly up again.  
“I think it’s a little late for that.”  
There was self-deprecatory, joyous laughter in her eyes, shining just beneath the surface. Catching the giddy, tender lightness of her mood, Patrick rolled his eyes, as though reluctantly conceding.

“Maybe for _rushing_ to Gretna, in the usual fashion…” he smiled, laughingly. “But it’s never too late. After all, centuries ago, in the more relaxed country parishes, marriage was primarily about ensuring that any children fathered were provided for, and fed. It was about _people_ , and whether they were cared for – not about abstract notions of purity or virtue. And the precise order things happened in was often considered less important than the overall commitment.”

He paused, and smiled self-consciously. He had accidentally become quite serious, when she had been trying to joke. And he knew that, according to her faith, marriage was a sacrament. He hadn’t meant to make light of that, or disrespect it. He just… The idea that anyone might think Shelagh could somehow be worth _less_ , for what they’d done, than she had been an hour previously… Not to put too fine a point on it, it was enraging. She had never meant _more_ to him.

But she had been joking, and he really shouldn’t dwell. Patrick smiled.

“I realise this sounds like me trying to justify things after the fact…but I’m serious, Shelagh.”

She smiled, so warmly it made his chest ache.  
“I know. And I think _you_ know I’d marry you anywhere, Patrick. Well, anywhere in a church,” she amended quickly. “ _Preferably_ not in a Gretna blacksmith’s.”

Patrick’s attention had caught on something so early on in her speech, he hardly heard what she was saying about churches and blacksmiths. He drew a slightly shaky breath.  
“So…you’ll marry me?”  
Shelagh’s eyes glittered. “Yes.”

A minute or so later, after he had kissed and kissed her, Shelagh nestled comfortably in his arms. Patrick felt impossibly lucky – and he couldn’t help wanting to extend that luck just a little further.

“I know I’ll have to be going…but can I stay for just a few more minutes? I promise you I won’t fall asleep.”  
The cosy cadence of Shelagh’s sleep-tinged voice delighted him – though not as much as what he heard her say next.  
“Why shouldn’t you? Stay till dawn. You can leave by the back door, and go straight up the hill to fetch Timothy, and nobody will be any the wiser.”

Marveling at the woman lying in his arms, Patrick reached to turn off the lamp at her bedside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I think I'm writing this for my teenage self, who had some pretty guilt-ridden ideas about sexuality.
> 
> Anyway, I'll just be over here blushing in the corner.


	10. Chapter 10

Patrick stirred in the early-morning darkness. He was warm, and heavy with sleep, and…he remembered. A smile formed on his drowsy features before he’d even opened his eyes.

Waking with Shelagh’s sleep-warmed body next to his, it was impossible not to touch her. Just to curl around her back, and kiss her shoulder and stroke her thigh, and reassure himself that this was not a dream. It definitely wasn’t a dream. Patrick felt a fresh wave of arousal that he was going to have to ignore.

Before long Shelagh stirred in his arms, giving a sleepy sigh.  
“Good morning,” he whispered, smiling against her skin.  
“Mm, good morning…”  
He could hear the smile in her voice.

It was necessary to whisper, now. Sometime in the early hours Morag would have returned. But even so, cosily wrapped up together, Patrick felt as though they were in their own private world.

“This is an _extremely_ nice way to wake up…”  
Shelagh laughed shyly under her breath.  
“I have to agree.”

He nuzzled her hair, tamping down on the unreasonable urge to make love to her again. He had already been given so much more, so much earlier, than he could ever have hoped for.

“I wonder what time it is…”  
“I’d say it’s sometime after six.”  
“Hmm. I should probably be going, then.”  
“Probably…”

Neither of them sounded remotely keen on the prospect. Shelagh turned in his arms, so that she lay on her back beside him.

“When I go and fetch Timothy,” he whispered, “can I tell him that you’ve said you’ll marry me?”  
He felt a lurch of nervousness at mentioning that, until he heard the warmth in her voice.  
“You can tell him that,” she smiled. “And perhaps, once he’s had a bath and dried out his sleeping bag and so on…you could come round for tea, and we could tell Morag?” Shelagh laughed wryly. “She’s going to be insufferable.”  
Patrick grinned. “I think we’ll cope. She couldn’t possibly look more smug than I’m going to.”  

He sighed.  
“Alright. I should really go…”  
He kissed her then, letting his hand roam the smooth skin of her side. Oh, it would be very easy to stay…but that was absolutely not an option. Patrick tore himself away from her, and reluctantly got out of bed.

Shelagh turned on her bedside lamp so that he could find his clothes, scattered as they were across the floor. Patrick dressed as quickly and quietly as he was able, and once all items of clothing were back in proper place, he came and sat beside her on the bed.

“So…” he whispered, smiling, “I’ll sneak out the back door? I’ll be careful, I promise. And I’ll see you later on this morning?”  
Shelagh smiled and nodded, clearly as mindful as he was of the need to be quiet. Instead of speaking, she reached for his hand, and Patrick clasped hers, squeezing it.  
“I love you,” he whispered, sincerely.  
Her smile was radiant.  
“I love you too,” she replied.

He _had_ to kiss her then – but the bedsprings creaked under his weight as he moved, and he pulled back, looking sheepish. Shelagh stifled a giggle.

 

Patrick felt positively adolescent, sneaking out the back door. The sun was only just rising, and all of Crovie was still. He suspected that some of the villagers would probably be feeling rather the worse for drink. If it kept them in bed late, he almost hoped so.

Once he was far enough up the hill that no one would be able to tell which cottage he’d left from, Patrick let himself relax. The sunlit landscape was staggeringly beautiful – though Patrick knew that the dullest London street would have looked beautiful to him that morning. Shelagh loved him.

And now he couldn’t wait to see Timothy. He felt full of affection for everyone and everything.

When Patrick crested the hill, he found his son almost immediately. Timothy was sitting up in his sleeping bag, elbows on his knees, taking in the view. He looked slightly dew-dampened perhaps, but very happy. The boy waved to his father with the hand that wasn’t holding a half-eaten apple. (The biscuits that Shelagh had packed for him had doubtless disappeared some hours before.) Patrick’s heart swelled at the sight.

“Hi Dad!”  
“Hello,” Patrick grinned as he strode towards him. “So, you survived the evening. All four limbs still present and accounted for?”  
He made a show of looking his son up and down.  
Timothy rolled his eyes, grinning. “Of course.”  
“It’s just that, last night, some of the men were saying something about wolves…”  
“ _Obviously_ they were pulling your leg, Dad.”  
“Now why didn’t I think of that.”

He helped Timothy pack up his little camp, rolling the sleeping bag and slinging the backpack over his shoulder. (He let Tim carry the bedroll.) Together they zig-zagged their way down the hill, neither of them in any rush. Timothy stopped every so often, to point out features of the landscape, and Patrick suspected he was reluctant for his adventure to end. This was precious father-son time...and Patrick decided to seize the opportunity.

“Tim…I’ve got something to tell you.”  
The boy looked across at him, and Patrick took a fortifying breath.  
“I’m in love with Shelagh. Miss Mannion.”  
Timothy considered this for a few seconds.  
“Good thing she’s not a nun anymore.”  
“Well quite,” said Patrick dryly, inwardly blessing his son’s naivety. As though he might have waited to fall in love with Shelagh until it was convenient.  
“And…I’ve asked her to marry me. And she’s said yes.”  
He _tried_ not to smile too broadly. He wanted to give the moment, and Timothy’s feelings, all the seriousness they deserved.  
“How would you feel about that?”

Timothy seemed more surprised to be privy to a serious adult subject than anything. He smiled.  
“I think that’d be great. And not _just_ because you’re pretty hopeless at cooking.”  
Patrick laughed, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, Tim.”

When they arrived back at the MacDiarmid’s, the village was slowly beginning its day.  Mr. MacDiarmid _did_ look ever-so-slightly hungover, but he greeted them cheerfully all the same. To Patrick’s relief, no one seemed to have noticed that his bed had gone unslept in. Mrs. MacDiarmid ran Timothy a bath, and Patrick had changed and was drying out the sleeping bag on the front washing line by the time Timothy joined him.

They were chatting away, emptying biscuit crumbs out of Mr. MacDiarmid’s backpack when Patrick saw Shelagh coming down the street. Even from a distance, anyone could tell – she was incandescently happy. She practically glowed. And she probably thought she was being subtle. Patrick wondered if his own happiness was equally plain to see.

As she approached their gazes locked, and Shelagh gave a secret, glowing smile that was just for him.  
“Good morning.”  
Patrick couldn’t help his foolish grin in response.  
“Good morning…”

They were both clearly delighting in this poor attempt at subterfuge. Greeting each other as though they were meeting for the first time that day. Possibly realising they’d been staring at each other too long, Shelagh turned her glowing smile on Timothy.

“And how was the expedition?” she asked, enthusiastically.  
Timothy grinned. “It was brilliant. I got a bit of sleep, but mainly I saw loads of stars, and I even picked out a few constellations. I saw Orion, and Canis Major and Minor… At least, I think I did. It’s hard to tell, really, because they’re all just lines.”  
Shelagh chuckled delightedly. “That _is_ the problem, isn’t it?”  
“Oh, and those biscuits you made were excellent sustenance. Thank you.”  
She beamed. “You’re very welcome.”

She glanced at Patrick, who had been watching them both in open adoration. Shelagh opened her mouth to speak, but paused self-consciously when Mrs. MacDiarmid came out the front door, her arms full of a basket of washing.  
“Oh, good morning, Shelagh,” the woman smiled, a little too casually to be really convincing.  
“Good morning…” Shelagh smiled in return, somewhat nervously. Then she added, as though by way of explanation, “I thought I’d come and see how Timothy’s expedition went.”  
Mrs. MacDiarmid’s knowing smile quite plainly said ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s why you’re here’. But out loud she said, “And it went perfectly, of course. Move over Ernest Shackleton!”  
Timothy laughed. “Mrs. MacDiarmid, Crovie is hardly the Antarctic!”

Mrs. MacDiarmid’s presence hurried them along, and soon they were making their excuses and setting off down the street to Morag’s house. The street was too narrow for the three of them to walk side-by-side, so Patrick fell into step behind Shelagh and Timothy.

“So…you and Dad are going to get married?”  
“Yes… I hope that’s alright with you?”  
“Of course. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”  
“Oh good.”

As they neared Morag’s house, Patrick tapped his son on the shoulder.  
“We’re just going to have a word with Morag, Tim…”  
The boy seemed to understand, picking up on his father’s slight nervousness.  
“Right. I’ll make myself scarce.”

Shelagh gave him a jittery smile as they paused outside Morag’s front door. Patrick felt oddly as though he was going to see the headmistress.

Morag was just putting the kettle on to boil when they entered the kitchen. She looked up, saw Patrick, and smiled rather shrewdly.  
“Ah, you’re just in time for tea…”

Patrick and Shelagh sat down at the table, while Morag set out the tea things. The older woman was seemingly oblivious to any tension, and apparently taking her time. Shelagh fidgeted beside him.  
“Actually, Morag, there’s…something I need to tell you. Don’t bother just now about the tea.”  
Morag raised her eyebrows in all-too-innocent curiosity, and finally took a seat.

Shelagh looked from Patrick to Morag, and swallowed.  
“Patrick has asked me to marry him. And I’ve said yes.”  
Morag’s expression didn’t waver.  
“Colour me _astonished_.”

The tension broke then, and Shelagh ducked her head with an embarrassed laugh.  
“Yes, well…”  
Shelagh was smiling shyly, and Patrick felt it was his turn to speak.  
“We wanted to tell you as soon as possible. It was only decided last night.”  
Morag nodded, smiling openly now. Her eyes were full of merry laughter.  
“Oh, I’d say it was decided some time before that…”  
It was Patrick’s turn to duck his head and laugh.

“So,” said Morag briskly, “you’ll marry and live in Poplar?”  
Patrick nodded, feeling a twinge of genuine guilt. “I feel I should apologise for taking her away from you.”  
Morag waved that off with a shake of her head.  
“I always knew I only ever had her on loan to begin with.”  
Shelagh smiled tremulously between them.

“We were almost thinking of stopping at Gretna, on the way back to London,” Shelagh confessed. She blushed slightly, as Morag raised a skeptical eyebrow.  
“Why _Gretna_? You’re neither of you twenty, if I may say.”  
Patrick stifled a laugh, duly embarrassed at this clear-eyed view of his foolish romanticism.  
“Anyway,” Morag went on, “the only permission you need to marry is your own.”  
Shelagh and Patrick looked at each other. “That’s true,” he smiled.

Morag frowned, looking suddenly more unsure of herself than Patrick had ever seen her.  
“Would you…would you _consider_ …getting married in Crovie?”  
Shelagh looked so earnestly surprised that Morag, seeming embarrassed, hurried on.  
“I would have liked to host your mother’s wedding, that was all. If I had been in a position to, I mean. But, of course, the Mannions were much better placed.”  
She smiled tightly, and shrugged.  
“And I know you’ll probably want to celebrate with your friends… But, if you _are_ going to marry in Scotland, why not consider Crovie as an option?”

Still clearly surprised, Shelagh turned to look at Patrick.  
“I’d be perfectly happy with that,” he said, in answer to her unspoken question. “I’d marry you anywhere.”  
It was an echo of the previous night’s conversation, and Shelagh couldn’t help but smile.  
“Well…” Shelagh managed, clearly a little overwhelmed, “that _would_ simplify things, I suppose… And of course we’d want you to be there, Morag.” Then she frowned. “But…would the parish priest come all this way? He’s stretched getting round the rural areas as it is. Even for Mass.”  
“He’ll come,” said Morag, firmly. Patrick had no doubt that, for Shelagh, she would move heaven and earth. (Even if he suspected that Morag generally didn’t have much to do with the former.)

Eventually, they remembered the tea. The conversation grew steadily more relaxed, until Timothy poked his head round the door.  
“Dad, I’m sick of loitering. Can I come in?”

 

After they’d had their tea, Patrick decided he owed Tim some more quality time. He was keenly aware of how much things were about to change, even if so much for the better. He thought Morag would probably appreciate some time alone with Shelagh, too. After being warned that, by the time they returned, the whole village would know about the engagement, Patrick and Timothy set off together.

They walked along the cliffs to a spot a few bays over, where Patrick taught his son the trick to skimming stones. They _had_ done it once, he was sure – but Tim’s technique was rusty.

“So, I’m going to need a best man… I don’t suppose you’d step in on short notice?”  
“Really?” Tim gawped.  
Patrick grinned. “Of course. I wouldn’t have anyone else.”  
Tim’s next stone skimmed far across the water.

By the time they made their way back to Crovie over the hills, it was practically time for dinner. And sure enough, on entering their hosts’ house Patrick was met by a teasing grin from Mr. MacDiarmid.  
“Here he is! The man who gets engaged and goes for a walk before we can ask him about it! That’s just not how we do things round here, Doctor Turner…”

Mr. MacDiarmid insisted on pouring them both a drink, though thankfully he didn’t ask too many questions. Mrs. MacDiarmid was very free with her congratulations too, and seemed to think she’d picked up on things before anyone else had.

Unsurprisingly, Timothy was exhausted, and Patrick sent him slightly early to bed. He had one more drink with Mr. MacDiarmid, and then considered turning in for the night himself. But no, he wanted to see Shelagh.

“Err, Tim…I think I left something out on the washing line,” Patrick lied, sticking his head round the bedroom door. “I’ll just fetch it, and be back to bed in a bit.”  
“Mmphm,” was all he got for a sleepy reply.

He felt a bit of a cad – or at least, ludicrously adolescent – sneaking round to Morag’s back door. But he only wanted to say goodnight to Shelagh, and perhaps steal a kiss. The only light left on in the house came from Shelagh’s bedroom, and that was only the soft glow of her lamp. Patrick thought it was probably safe.

The back door creaked slightly as he entered the darkened kitchen. He pushed it shut behind him, was tiptoeing through the shadows when – to his horror – Morag emerged from a door nearby.

Patrick froze. Morag didn’t appear to have seen him. She was absently patting her pockets and staring into space, in a note-perfect impression of ‘distracted old lady’. She passed within two feet of him, without looking up - and closed her bedroom door behind her.

When Patrick felt able to move again, he hurried into Shelagh’s room. She looked up with an expression of delighted surprise, but that changed when she saw the look on his face.  
“Patrick? What’s the matter?”  
“Morag walked right past me in the kitchen. Passed within two feet. Didn’t even look up.”

Shelagh bit her lip. Then, to Patrick’s surprise, her mouth turned up at the corners.  
“Well, you know Patrick,” she said very seriously, “older ladies often have rather poor eyesight.”

He crossed the room in two paces, and kissed the mischievous smile from her lips.  
“ _Bless_ that woman,” he breathed sincerely, when they parted. Shelagh giggled. He loved the way her hands came to settle so naturally on his chest.  
“Anyway, I only wanted to say a proper goodnight.”  
“Did you now?” Shelagh smiled teasingly up at him.  
“I told Timothy I’d left something out on the washing line.”

“And how was your afternoon together?”  
Patrick smiled.  
“It was perfect. I asked him to be my best man, and taught him to skim stones properly. He still hasn’t beaten my record, I hasten to add.”  
“And your record is…?”  
“Seven skips,” said Patrick, importantly.  
“ _Very_ impressive.”  
Shelagh’s eyes were dancing. He kept his face perfectly serious.  
“I’m glad you agree.”

Making Shelagh laugh was…well, his second favourite thing. He let his gaze drop to her floral nightdress, thumbing lightly at the material on her hips.  
“This is pretty… Though I can’t say I regretted its absence, last night…”  
She tried to give him a disapproving look. The light in her eyes made it less than convincing. And oh, he loved the way she blushed.

Shelagh smiled shyly down at her hands on his chest.  
“I can’t believe I’m planning a wedding…”  
“ _You_ can’t believe it?” Patrick smiled at her in wonderment. Then he frowned.  
“I should have brought you a ring. I thought about it… I was always going to ask you. But, I don’t know, somehow I thought turning up with a ring might seem presumptuous.”  
Shelagh smiled and shook her head. “I don’t need a ring anyway. We’re hardly going to have a long engagement.”  
“Thank goodness,” said Patrick fervently, giving her nightdress another appreciative glance. “And you _are_ going to have a ring. Just as soon as I can get to a jewellers’.”

He bent to kiss her cheek, and then the spot behind her ear, and then her neck was at a very convenient proximity. Shelagh’s breath quickened.  
“D-didn’t you say you were going?”  
“I did, didn’t I?” Patrick huffed a breath against her skin. “I could always tell Timothy I got lost…”  
“In a village with one street?”  
He noted with some pride that her voice was not entirely steady.  
“Perhaps not. I suppose I should say goodnight, then.”

He drew back, and they shared a smile before he bent once more to kiss her. His body was reacting with rather more enthusiasm than the situation called for – but in all honesty, who could blame him?  
“Goodnight, Patrick.”  
“Goodnight, my love.”

His hand was on the door when she looked at him over her shoulder and, with a smile that dazzled him, added, “Sweet dreams.”  
“You know, I _think_ I might have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!


	11. Chapter 11

It hardly seemed possible that they’d been in Crovie just a little over a week. In such a short space of time, so much had changed, and come to fruition. And Patrick wasn’t sure he’d ever been happier.

The villagers all seemed delighted to have a wedding on their hands. It had been quite some time since Crovie had seen one. The afternoon of the next day, Patrick and Shelagh were still receiving congratulations, and people kept ‘just stopping by’ Morag’s house to keep up to date on the plans.

“I’ll get my brother’s boys to come from Banff,” Angus Wilson promised. “They play for all the weddings there, and the ceilidhs. Oh, and Patrick…” he added, winking, “I hope you’ll be married in a kilt…?”  
Morag outright cackled, and the sparkle in Shelagh’s eye _almost_ made him think it would be worth it. But no, he still had some pride, thank goodness.

 

A shopping trip to a nearby town was going to be essential. Shelagh and Morag started on a list, and Morag called in Mrs. Reid for backup.  
“Jeanie’s the one who’ll know about this. I’m no good with all the fripperies!”

Patrick left Mrs. Reid and Shelagh talking about lace, and moved to the sink to rinse out the teapot. He could see Morag out the front window, laughing with Tim. He was so caught up in the picture they made that he only just heard the conversation behind him.

“Anyway, I’m just so _pleased_ for you, dearie. I did worry, when you first got here, that after all you’d been through…that perhaps you might… Well, we’ve all wanted to run away…”  
There was a tense silence, as startling realisation slowly dawned on Shelagh.  
“You…you _knew_? That I’d…been a Sister? I thought…no one here knew…”  
He heard Mrs. Reid sigh.  
“Morag used to have a photograph of you, here in the kitchen. It was you in your habit, standing outside the convent. She must have taken it down before you arrived.”  
There was another silence. Patrick felt rooted to the spot. He couldn’t put the teapot down for fear it would clatter.  
“Oh, now, listen,” said Mrs. Reid, firmly, presumably in response to the look on Shelagh’s face. “When you get to my age, dearie, you know: we’ve none of us been one thing all our lives.”  
At a sudden sniff and an intake of breath, Patrick dared to sneak a glance over his shoulder. To his immense relief, he saw that Shelagh was smiling, clasping Mrs. Reid’s hands in her own.  
“Now…tell that fiancé of yours we’ll be needing the use of his car.”  
Patrick quickly pretended he hadn’t been listening.

 

They made the shopping trip into town the very next day. Patrick, Timothy, Morag, Shelagh, _and_ Mrs. Reid all piled into the MG – which made for a very cosy journey. In the town square they parted ways, Patrick and Timothy heading off together.

It was a long time since Patrick had been fitted for a suit, and never with Timothy beside him. If he said so himself, they both looked rather dapper. Then there were shoes to buy, and Brylcreem for their hair – Tim was quite insistent about that.

They saved the engagement ring and wedding rings for last. Patrick knew that Shelagh would want something unostentatious. When they walked out of the jewellers’, a velvet box in Patrick’s pocket and two more in a bag, the Turner boys were quite pleased with themselves. Timothy gazed around the town square. The ladies weren’t anywhere to be seen.  
“They’re going to take forever, aren’t they?”  
“Probably,” Patrick smiled. “How about you and I find a café?”

When Shelagh and Morag and Mrs. Reid finally emerged, they looked somewhat exhausted, but all very pleased. Shelagh gave Patrick a ‘wait and see’ sort of look.

 _She_ didn’t have to wait long, however. That night, after dinner in Morag’s kitchen, he took Shelagh aside and gave her the engagement ring. It soon became abundantly clear that he’d made the right choice.  
“Och, stop mooning over each other,” said Morag, without any conviction whatsoever.

 

Patrick received a letter next day, addressed to him care of the MacDiarmids’. It was from Doctor Buchanan. Dated back a week, it thanked Patrick again for the opportunity given, and enquired after the health of ‘his friend’. Patrick considered writing back ‘My soon-to-be-wife is very well, thank you’, but decided against it.

He was slightly apprehensive about how things would be when they got back to Poplar. There was no doubt that people would talk. However, Shelagh constantly surprised him. Her months in Crovie had showed her a kind of support that she had never known – and it showed in _her_ , in a brave new confidence. He thought the last hurdle might have been her tête-à-tête with Mrs. Reid.

(Well, no, of course there would always be more hurdles. But they would face them together.)

 

The date was set, the parish priest was confirmed, and there were just a few details left to get sorted. It was decided that they’d leave Crovie immediately after the wedding. That would end their stay on a high note, and ease the pain of departure. They’d break the journey back to London at some nice inn or hotel.

The day before the wedding, Mrs. MacDiarmid was busily baking the cake. Over at Morag’s, Shelagh was flitting about taking last-minute inventory of tablecloths and crystal. When she disappeared into Morag’s pantry, Patrick checked first that no one was paying attention, and then followed her.

“Patrick!” Shelagh admonished him as he came up close behind her, tucking his chin over her shoulder as though he was interested in her list.  
“Sorry,” he said, mildly, not moving at all.  
“No, you aren’t.”  
“Not particularly.”  
She scoffed, and looked down at her list again – though not before noting the casual location of Patrick’s hands on her thighs.  
“All I can say is it’s a good thing you want to marry me…”  
“ _Want_ to? Shelagh, I’m desperate.”  
She spun in his arms and kissed him suddenly with all the enthusiasm she’d so well disguised.  
“ _Soon_ …” she breathed, with a smile as she pulled away. And then she darted past him, leaving him alone in the pantry and slightly breathless.

 

The morning of the wedding, Timothy ‘woke’ Patrick – who in fact had been awake for several hours already. For the last time, the two of them dressed in the MacDiarmid’s guest room. Packing their cases was strange, and bittersweet – though they’d be taking much of their Crovie happiness with them.

A hearty breakfast had been prepared. (Mrs. MacDiarmid really thought of everything.) Once they had eaten, and Brylcreemed their hair, and let Mrs. MacDiarmid attach their buttonhole posies, they set off for the chapel together on foot.

The chapel was hardly bigger than any other house along Crovie’s shoreline. Even before the storm, when the village had had a larger population, there hadn’t been room or call for more than a modest church. It was beautiful, though, in its simplicity.

The priest greeted them, and slowly the pews began to fill, as the community trickled in. There was a palpable sense of joy and excitement – and Patrick had never seen Angus Wilson so smartly dressed. He felt oddly touched by it all.

He and Timothy took their places at the altar, and soon the priest asked everyone to stand. Then Patrick turned. When Shelagh entered, the sea was behind her, glittering just beyond the chapel’s doors.

Her dress was of grey lace, long-sleeved, and decorated at the waist with a band of embroidery that proved on inspection to be purple heather. Whether she had forgone white because of her previous vows, or because of the night they’d spent together, Patrick couldn’t be sure. But she wore it with such confidence that he could have no concerns. She could not have been more the blushing bride, or, in that moment, more perfect to him.

The ceremony was simple, and beautiful, and over before Patrick knew it. Kissing Shelagh for the first time as his wife felt…wonderful, and at the same time no different at all. As Morag had impertinently pointed out, they’d been each other’s for a long time already.

When they spilled out of the chapel onto Crovie’s narrow street, there was hardly room for the whole congregation to join them. Laughing and brushing off a scattering of rice, the bride and groom and Timothy led the way down the street. Out the back of Morag’s house, celebrations would commence.

Patrick raised their joined hands to his lips as they walked, and kissed the new ring on her finger. The smile they shared said more than any words could’ve.

They all met again round the back of Morag’s house, the party spilling into the gardens of houses either side. Everyone was fussing over Timothy in his best suit, and Patrick and Shelagh were overwhelmed with congratulations. Angus Wilson and Mr. MacDiarmid were disappointed to find they weren’t going to be allowed to get Patrick drunk. However, they soon realised – without Patrick needing to spell it out for them – that driving safely to the location of one’s wedding night was also _quite_ important. They gave him a nip from their silver hip flasks, all the same.

Shelagh had assured him that the party wouldn’t be an actual ceilidh – but it wouldn’t be a Scottish wedding without a little bit of dancing. The Wilson lads played their instruments with great skill, and Patrick thought he picked up the dances well enough. He quickly deduced that the point of the Eightsome Reel was to get a pretty girl in the middle, and ensure that everyone had a turn to dance with her. In this case, ‘everyone’ included Timothy, Mrs. Reid, and Morag – who whirled her cousin’s daughter around almost better than anyone.

After a dance or two, the party was really underway, and Patrick managed to steal his new wife away around the side of one of the houses. Hands on her waist, he pulled Shelagh close and grinned delightedly down at her.  
“Well, Mrs. Turner… How’s my dancing, then? Passable?”  
Shelagh feigned nonchalance. “You’ll do.”  
He laughed at that and kissed her, feeling her smile against his lips. He couldn’t help holding her rather possessively, his hands delighting in the curve of her waist.  
“You look… _so_ beautiful. This is lovely.” He looked down at the dress, his thumb brushing the band of embroidery. Shelagh smiled.  
“The embroidery’s old. The lace is new. My hair clip is borrowed.”  
“And, err…blue?”  
Shelagh didn’t reply, but raised her eyes innocently heavenwards. Patrick stared for a moment, and then urgently checked his watch.  
“I suppose it’s still too early to leave…?”  
Shelagh chuckled sympathetically, and kissed him.  
“I’m afraid so.”

When they rejoined the party, they found that one of the Wilson boys had given Timothy his fiddle. The band and their new member then played a schoolboy’s version of the classic ‘Mairi’s Wedding’, which predictably made Shelagh’s eyes bright with tears. (Even so, she and Morag danced the reel perfectly.)

Patrick had ducked inside, and was standing by an open window when he overheard a group of old ladies talking. He thought he recognised the voice of Mrs. Reid – and her older sister, who’d travelled for the wedding from out of town.  
“So, she left the Order for him?”  
“She left the Order and ran away here. And he followed her.”  
One of them sighed. “That’s terribly romantic…”  
“And, well, not to speak out of turn… But, looking at him, I’d’ve had to run that far to stop myself, too.”  
The ladies all erupted into scandalised laughter.  
“Sophie Reid, you are abominable!”

Parties in Crovie seldom had a clear cut-off point. As the time of their departure drew near, Shelagh and Patrick did the rounds, shaking hands and embracing people, and thanking everyone a million times over. Shelagh slipped away to Morag’s to change into her going-away outfit – and when she returned, it was in a skirt suit more up-to-date and modern than anything Patrick had seen her in previously. This, he could already tell, was who she would be in London. They weren’t even there yet, and already he was impossibly proud.

When the time came, it was Patrick, Shelagh, Tim and Morag who slipped away from the party, to the cart that was waiting to carry them up the hill. (One of the less tipsy villagers had volunteered to drive it.) Someone had attached a sign to the cart, reading ‘Just Married’. They all smiled, though the reality of their departure was suddenly hitting home.  
“Come as far as the car with us, Morag,” Shelagh pleaded, as Patrick gave her a hand into the cart.  
The older woman pointed at the sign. “ _I’m_ not Just Married.”  
Timothy snorted. “Neither am I! Come on, Morag…” He patted the seat next to his own.  
Rolling her eyes in a way that did nothing to conceal how moved she was, Morag accepted a hand into the cart.

The MG was waiting for them at the top of the hill. Patrick loaded their cases into the boot, allowing Shelagh to make the most of her moment with Morag. When he walked back around the car to join them, both women’s eyes were slightly red.

“I _will_ visit,” Shelagh promised. “And write.”  
The echo of Mairi’s visits hung in the air – which had first halted, and then with complete finality stopped.  
“I know ye will,” Morag nodded, her voice wobbling slightly.  She looked from Shelagh to Patrick, and back again. “And if ye do have any bairns, I’d like to meet them. Before their twenty-first birthday, if possible.” Then she turned to Timothy. “I’d like to see _you_ again before you reach that age, too.”  
“Of course! I’ll come and see you myself, as soon as I have my own car.”  
That provided a moment of light relief, as Patrick’s eyebrows shot up at this announcement.

Morag had given Timothy a book from her shelf, a book of stars and constellations. He was already reading it the moment he was in the backseat, as Shelagh embraced Morag one last time. Once the Turner family were settled in the MG, Patrick started the motor. All three of them waved at Morag out the back window, as the car sailed away down the road.

“Well,” sighed Timothy, looking out the window, “I s'pose I’ll have a good report for ‘What I Did On My Holiday’.”  
Patrick raised a teasing eyebrow in the rear-view mirror.  
“Camping on a Scottish hillside, you mean?”  
Timothy smirked. “Yes, Dad. Obviously that.”

The Turners all chuckled, Patrick reaching across the gearbox to hold Shelagh’s hand on her knee. As Timothy went back to his book, Patrick smiled across at her.  
“Are you alright?” he asked softly, noting the way her eyes were still slightly damp.  
“I’m fine,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’m wonderful.”

Patrick smiled tenderly at her, and turned his gaze back to the road. There was a long journey ahead of them, and this was only the first leg – but by nightfall they would be in each other’s arms. On this, or any other night, that was all that Patrick could possibly ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks _so_ much to everyone who's commented and kudosed, and encouraged me with this fic! You're all extremely lovely.
> 
> Oh, and a shoutout to my partner, for putting up with - and occasionally dancing to - the mix of 50s love songs and Scottish country dances that I've blared throughout the writing of this fic. (The 50s love songs will probably continue...)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little different to what I normally write...so I'd love to hear what you think of it! Comments are very very welcome.
> 
> Also, feel free to say hi on tumblr: @wednesdaygilfillian


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